


Deathly Denial

by LizzieBowen18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dubious Morality, Gen, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is Lord Peverell, Harry Potter is tired of all this shit, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Master of Death Harry Potter, Minor Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Sane Tom Riddle, Slytherin Common Room, Slytherin Politics, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Smart Harry Potter, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War with Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieBowen18/pseuds/LizzieBowen18
Summary: What do you do when Death offers you a second chance?Accept apparently...---If there's one thing Harry hates, it's fate. Unfortunately for him, he's her favored champion.This is going to end well (not).
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Orion Black & Abraxas Malfoy & Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle/Other(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 83





	1. Dead but not buried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter is possibly my favorite character in the series. Something that's honestly not said very often.  
> This in mind, he will definitely be the focus of this story.
> 
> Warnings: Drowning (sort of).
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K Rowling (I'm just playing with the concepts).
> 
> Enjoy!

Sirius lied.

Death hurts worse than anything else. Not physically mind you, no... there is no pain.

But after, when the bone chilling realization sets in. When you know the unbeatable truth: that you're never going to feel the wind on your cheeks, will never experience the joy of fresh snow on your eyelashes.

Then something within you fractures.

Pieces break off, until the only thing that remains is what you made yourself. Not the expectations, dreams, or influences of others.

Just you.

It is terrifying, yet wonderful.

Harry hates it. Truly, and deeply hates that he was forced to give his life for others.

Don't be mistaken he went to his death willingly.

He just didn't go to it happily.

Silently stood in the middle of a perfectly clean King's cross station Harry realizes all of this; the numb acceptances he'd been swathed in after exiting the pensieve finally having drained away.

It makes him want to scream.

_Why did I have to die?_ He thinks despondently, _didn't I give enough?_

He knows the answer... as the fate appointed savior he was never going to be good enough.

Gritting his teeth Harry starts to wander, exploring the stark environment he is stuck in. Looking at the blindingly white surroundings derisively; it's a false impression of perfection, and he's not impressed.

Spotting a bench he heads towards it, he can't be bothered anymore.

It's painful to picture the reactions of his friends to his body, because he knows Voldemort will present it like some fucking trophy. It's what he would have done... if he was alive.

Collapsing onto the bench, he drops his head into his hands with a sigh.

_Who knew death would be so boring._ He thinks with a snort.

"I suppose I deserve that."

Head shooting up, Harry goggles at the man stood in front of him.

"Wh... how... who?" He stutters, mind shuttering at the presence of another being.

Eyebrow raised, with a silent scoff of amusement hidden in his dark eyes, the other man simply smiles. 

Looking at him in shock it takes a while for his words to sink in, when they do he freezes.

"There it is," the man says. A satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

"Death."

"Mr. Potter." He drawls, doing a scarily good job of sounding exactly like Snape.

Coughing Harry looks away, shoulders hunched instinctively. 

"What's going to happen now?" He asks, shivering slightly when the entity sits beside him.

"That is up to you."

Head snapping up, Harry looks at Death coldly.

"How? I'm dead." 

"Yes... for most people that would be rather final, wouldn't it. But you are not like most other humans are you Mr. Potter." Death says slowly.

Glaring at the man he wants to curse something.

_S_ _o I'm not even going to be free when I'm dead!_ The thought comes unbidden, a ball of despair curling in on itself in his gut.

"What do you mean?" He finally asks.

"You have always been Fate's favorite, and even if you were not you come from a line that is fundamentally linked to myself. If I were to be blunt, I would say that you never stood a chance of being ordinary."

Death's answer makes him feel sick.

"Never?"

"No. I am afraid not."

The silence which follows Death's proclamation is deafening. 

"Why?" He demands. What exactly he wants to know he's not sure, he simply wants answers.

"You are my master." Spotting the lost look on Harry's face Death chuckles. "Did you really think that there would be no consequences involved in uniting the Hallows? The wand, stone, and cloak when in the possession of one with Peverell blood make said person the true Master of Death."

Harry can't help but gape at the ancient being.

"How?"

"My own pride mostly. I thought to teach three seemingly upstart wizards a lesson... as it turns out I learnt one instead. If there is one thing you must understand it is this: pacts are not easily broken. I made one with the three brothers when I gave them the Hallows, you met its requirements."

"And because of this I get a choice?"

"Yes."

Dumbfounded Harry looks down at his hands silently, thoughts swirling chaotically within his head.

_What are the options?_

Hearing his unspoken question, Death continues. 

"You can go back to the forest, or you can go back in time."

"How?"

"Fate has a plan for you, it involves you returning to the instant you died. On the other hand Time and I are tired of Fate meddling; so we are intervening."

Smirking slightly, Harry barely keeps a hissed 'fuck fate' from escaping his mouth. The amused glance Death sends his way makes it obvious that the being picked up on it anyway.

"What would happen if I went back? How far would I go?"

"1942."

"That's when Voldemort was at Hogwarts."

"Yes it is."

"Fifth year... before he released the Basilisk?" Harry mumbles brain working rapidly to try and understand the greater plan.

"That would be correct."

"You don't want me to save him do you? Cause I hate to tell you this, but Tom Riddle was a dick."

Death's surprised laugh makes Harry grin for the first time since he died.

"You can if you think you have a chance. Like I said, the choice is yours."

"So what... I'm being sent back to his time, and you expect me to not meddle?"

"Oh I fully expect meddling, you can't help it." Death says cheerily.

"You know you're an ass." Harry says, regretting the words after he says them.

Death's smug grin makes him want to shove him of the bench.

"I wouldn't see my friends again." He finally says sadly.

"You will get new ones."

"It's not the same..."

"No. But too much of the same can be detrimental, and you will always have your memories."

Swallowing, Harry stands up. Arms wrapping around his middle as he thinks.

"If I do this, who will I be?"

"Hadrian, the last scion of House Peverell."

"Let me guess I'm not going to be seventeen."

"No, fifteen."

"You want me to be in the same year as Tom." It's not a question, Harry's natural, blunt, honesty breaking through any sense of propriety Hermione had tried to teach him.

Sighing Harry turns to face the still sitting being.

"Will it hurt?"

"Yes."

The honest answer makes Harry smile reluctantly. It's refreshing.

Clearing his throat he looks around one final time.

"Let's do this." He says, nervously wiping his hands on his jeans.

"If you are sure."

Nodding sharply, Harry freezes when the other man stands; towering over him. A hand grasping his shoulder makes him blink in surprise. _That was fast._

The wry grin stretched across Death's face makes Harry gasp in shock. The entity's face flickers, a skull's outline clearly visible through the static.

"One final bit of advice Harry, this is a second chance. Embrace it."

With those odd words spoken, everything goes black.

All the bright light previously illuminating the station disappearing in a flash, as Harry floats in a dark, eternal lake.

Just as he starts to panic, pain shoots through his body.

Fire racing through his veins, while ice slides through his heart.

It makes him scream.

Opening his mouth all that happens is water rushing down his throat, filling his lungs. 

He sinks.

Oblivion dimming his vision, while eternity entraps his mind.

Stars glimmer beautifully, faintly... coldly. Watching over him while he falls into time's embrace; letting it wrap around him, transport him.

Closing his eyes, Harry gives in.

Feeling the gentle caress of Life guide him where he needs to go.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to write Death?  
> It's difficult, there are so many amazing versions out there. I went with a deliberately human one, I hope you all like it!
> 
> Please feel free to comment!  
> I love finding out what you all think!


	2. Gringotts gold, and grandiose ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a joy to write, the words simply flowed onto the page. 
> 
> Warnings:  
> Panic attack  
> Mild description of a hand injury
> 
> Enjoy!

Awareness comes instantly.

A cruel jolt, which forces a startled cry out of him.

Looking around Harry takes in the tall, crooked, buildings which sway above him. Groaning, he shuts his eyes; leaning heavily on the wall behind him.

_Shit._

Breathing deeply he tries to organize the chaotic thoughts racing through his mind.

It doesn't go well.

Collapsing onto the ground, Harry feels his stomach lurch. A disgusting ball of vomit, and sorrow rolling around in his gut. He retches, hunched over, breathe coming in staggered gasps; while he struggles to gain control of his body.

Flashes of the life he's left behind race through his mind.

Hermione beaming at him over a copy of 'Hogwarts A History', the twinkle in her eyes reminding him of the stars. Her hug making him feel warm and loved during Umbridge's reign of terror. Ron laughing boisterously when his prank charm backfires leaving his face painted green and silver; his steady presence keeping him grounded through their many adventures. Sirius... his godfather, kind yet scattered, devoted but absent, his promise of family left cruelly tattered because of Bellatrix.

They're all out of reach now.

Hands covering his face, he's startled to find his cheeks wet. His eyes flicker open, disbelieving gaze caught on tear stained hands.

 _Why did I agree to this?_ The thought filters through the haze of memories clouding his mind.

The question goes unanswered.

While silence blankets the area around him unnaturally.

It is usually never quiet around him, either Hermione is talking about the latest thing to catch her fancy; or Ron is ranting about how the Chudley cannons "will totally win this year." During the Horcrux hunt the prolonged, melancholy infested silence nearly drove him mad. It reminded him too much of long summer days trapped at the Dursley's.

Now he'd do anything to have that silence again; at least then he wasn't alone. Not truly.

Frowning Harry shivers involuntarily. It's cold. 

Freezing actually. 

_What fresh hell is this?_

Looking around frantically, he is surprised to realize he's in a side alley connected to Diagon Alley. The bustling figures passing by the space he is collapsed in, ignore him completely... like he's invisible.

Blinking in shock he leans back against the wall, swallowing thickly.

He doesn't feel ready to face a rush of normal people, behaving in perfectly ordinary ways. Not after years of suspicious glances, and hushed conversations.

It feels false, like some fever dream Voldemort would send to give him hope before gleefully ripping it all away. 

Coughing quietly, he decides to take stock. He needs something to do before he snaps.

Looking down he realizes he's wearing a pair of midnight black trousers; as well as a similarly black shirt which is partially unbuttoned at the top. A charcoal grey waist coat hugs his body, adding some warmth to the look, while the smart leather shoe on his feet do nothing of the sort. But they look good, so there is that...

Glancing to the side he spots an open front grey robe on the ground besides him, it looks warm so (after standing) he slips it on. It fits.

"Thank you Death." He murmurs, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

Hands going to check the pockets, he feels a wave of sorrow roll through him when he pulls the Marauders map out of one. There's a note attached: I thought you'd appreciate having a bit of home with you.

Knuckles white, Harry breathes deeply; struggling to contain the scream clawing at his throat.

Gripping the parchment tightly, he feels fat tears start to roll down his cheeks again.

 _I'm sick of crying._ He thinks angrily; scrubbing his face with the corner of his new cloak.

"Priorities Harry, come on..." He mumbles. Thoughts racing, forcibly focused on the present. ~~Not the future he's left behind.~~

"Fuck!"

Pivoting he slams his hand into the stone wall, temper overwhelming logic momentarily.

It hurts.

Biting his lip, hard, Harry looks down at his now bloody knuckles derisively. "I deserved that," he mutters. The words feel heavy, hanging around his neck like a noose; while his blood slowly drips onto the ground, pooling where it falls.

Using the pain as a focus, he shifts all his attention away from the previously overwhelming regret and sadness he'd been drowning in.

"Gold... I need coin. Gringotts." He mutters, shifting slightly.

_Okay, we... I mean I have a priority._

Releasing a puff of air, he stands straight. Allowing a mischievous grin to settle on his lips, while his emerald eyes lighten slightly. 

"Come on Potter, you've got this."

With that said, he stalks out of the small alley. Heading determinedly towards the glistening bank in front of him. 

* * *

Stood in a queue, waiting to be called forth to talk to one of the crotchety little creatures which manage all the gold. He feels out of place.

Like a painting, old, forgotten, and collecting dust which suddenly gets put over a mantle.

"Next."

Swallowing nervously, he steps forward. 

"I am here to speak with the Peverell account manager, I wish to claim my vault." He says succinctly.

The deafening silence which engulfs the room nearly makes him flinch, but he refuses to give into the instinct.

The glare leveled his way by the goblin in front of him is further unnerving.

"Right this way... Mr. Peverell." There's a sneer in the supposedly respectful words, which makes Harry certain the goblin doesn't believe his claim to being a Peverell.

 _That won't do._ He thinks firmly. Straightening properly, with an unimpressed eyebrow raised in face of the rudeness. 

His expression screams 'try me'.

Following the goblin into a relatively simple office, he goes to stand by the window; looking out of it with interest. It shows the sprawling expanse of downtown muggle London, the tall buildings creating a intricate view.

A cough drags him out of the contemplative state he slipped into.

Turning around he is surprised to find a smartly dressed goblin stood before him, now that in an of itself wouldn't have been anything remarkable. However the four guards spread throughout the room decked in battle plate, and carrying swords make him blink in surprise.

"That's a bit excessive." He states, wanting to wince once the words escape his lips.

The main goblin chuckles, putting him slightly at ease.

"Please sit Mr. Peverell. We have much to discuss." It has a deep guttural voice, which fills the room.

Seeing the pointed looks leveled his way, Harry does as suggested.

Sitting in the plush armchair, on one end of the dark mahogany desk which stands in the center of the room.

A bowl and dagger appears in the center of the table. With the goblin sat opposite him holding the gold, diamond encrusted dagger out to him.

"To ensure you are who you claim to be." Is the only explanation offered.

Looking at it hesitantly, Harry's breathe hitches slightly when he drags it across his palm.

Three drops of blood fall into the bowl before the cut magically seals itself.

Nothing happens for several long seconds, the guards stat to shift in agitation. The main goblin simply leans forward in interest.

_What is he waiting for?_

Harry gets his answer one beat later, when a sharp shock-wave shoots through the room. Knocking the guards down, only leaving Harry in place.

Transfixed he watches as the bowl melts, shifting into a leather bound book with a Thestral embossed on the front cover.

"Congratulations Mr. Peverell, you are who you claim to be."

A wry grin steals across Harry's face. "Who else would I be?"

"Numerous people have come forth over the years claiming to be 'The last Peverell'. You wouldn't have been the first." It isn't said chidingly, but the words still make Harry feel foolish.

Clearing his throat he glances around, spotting the more relaxed stances of the guards instantly. 

_Probably disappointed they didn't get to take my head._

"What now Mr...?"

"Grimclaw. Now we go through your account statement, and you claim the family ring."

"Alright. How do I go about doing that?"

Rather than give a verbal response, Grimclaw removes an intricately carved box from a drawer in the desk and places it in front of Harry.

Leaning forward slowly Harry picks up the box. Opening it to find a silver ring inside, resting on a velvet cushion. It's engraved, the words 'Death is not my foe' glimmering in the daylight; while a obsidian stone is set in the front. The symbol of the three hallows carved into it, with a thestral's profile faintly visible beneath the lines.

Picking it up Harry slides the ring onto his left hand, breathing in sharply when a wave of magic washes over him; judges him.

Gliding through his veins, he starts when it finds his core; swirling around the concentration of magic ominously. 

Finally it settles, entwining itself with his very soul. Irreversibly changing the makeup of his magical signature.

Releasing a relieved breathe Harry looks at Grimclaw expectantly.

It takes several moments for the goblin to compose himself, his obvious shock at the display making a smile tug at Harry's face.

 _I_ _love magic._

"Well... yes. Now that is out of the way lets get this meeting done with, shall we?" 

Harry nods in reply.

Smiling politely at the account manager when he hands over the book. Flipping it open he feels his eyebrows raise in surprise at the first words written on the page.

The Master of the hallows  approaches

Scorning the destiny they were given by fate

When they arrive the preset door  closes

they will struggle with the forces of  hate

sharpened thorns hidden by the petals of roses

While death's hunger is finally sate.

_Another prophecy?_

Snorting quietly, Harry can't help but stare at the looping words in silent disbelief.

Gaze slipping from the echoing prophecy he looks at the account manager before him. "Did you know?"

The puzzled expression is all the answer he needs, so rather than explain he holds the book out for the goblin to see.

"It would seem that I can't easily escape Fate's tender path." He says dryly.

"It would seem so..." Grimclaw agrees faintly.

"Although it strikes me as more of a warning than as a true prophecy..."

"Prophetic warnings technically count."

Smirking emptily Harry takes the book back, "Fate's a bitch."

"Quite."

Silence blankets the room, wizard and goblin both lost in fate focused thought.

"It's not very cheery is it?" Harry comments lightly, "I wonder if there's a ban on happy prophecies or something..."

"Considering that they often deal with world altering circumstances a cheery tone might be seen as inappropriate." Grimclaw says dryly, shooting an unimpressed glower towards Harry.

"Yet it's perfectly acceptable to ruin lives for what? Entertainment? No I don't buy it." 

"Well when you put it like that..." Grimclaw concedes, trailing off with a thoughtful frown.

"There is one part I don't understand."

"What do you mean?" The goblin asks.

"Just... most of this prophecy makes sense, to me anyway. But 'sharpened thorns hidden by the petals of roses' I don't understand. Does it refer to me, or to others?"

"Given the prophecy as a whole I'd assume it's about you." Grimclaw points out gently.

"But why? I know I can be prickly, but I don't usually hide it..." Harry says, eyes wide and questioning as he looks hopelessly down at the words.

 _I came here to escape fate dammit!_ The words sit on his tongue, bitter and sweet. Stuck on the precipice of being screamed at the world, but never making the final tumble.

"Perhaps it is referencing how you will have to adapt to this new environment?" 

The suggestion makes Harry jolt, head snapping up to look at the goblin who'd stayed respectfully silent while he started to spiral.

"Perhaps..." clearing his throat, Harry grins sheepishly. "Shall we continue?" He asks, desperately trying to change the topic, flicking through the pages with false interest.

"Yes, we have a fair amount to get through." Grimclaw agrees quickly, looking very pleased to have something new to focus on.

Pausing in his perusal of the book Harry is surprised by what he finds:

**Peverell Account:**

**(#4) Main Vault:**

**Galleons - 25,000,000**

**Sickles- 16,030**

**Knuts - 2,485**

**(#201) Trust Vault (heir apparent):**

**Galleons - 15,000**

**Sickles - 5,000**

**Knuts - 500**

***To be refilled per annum**

**Properties:**

**Peverell Manor, Scotland**

**Dartmoor Cottage, Wales**

**Harold's Hideaway, Diagon Alley** **apartment**

**Businesses:**

**Madam Malkin's - 25%**

**Ogden's Old Firewhiskey - 12%**

**Honeydukes - 35%**

**Slug and Jiggers Apothecary - 5%**

"This is better than I expected it would be." Harry murmurs. The amount of gold is excessive, but it settles a latent worry he'd been ignoring that he'd be without funds.

"It is gratifying to know you appreciate the effort Gringotts bank has put into maintaining your family's account."

Humming quietly, Harry nods gratefully.

"Any changes you would recommend?"

"No. However I feel I must inform you that your ability to sanction any changes is limited due to your position as heir."

"How?" It's a demand for information, rather than a polite request.

"The bylaws of this country dictate that 'any claimant must be past their seventeenth year when pressing said claim, those not of age (if in possession of the family ring) may name a proxy.' Now as you are no doubt aware, these regulations do not control the Family Magics. They serve purely as political devises to ensure that members of the governing body are mature enough to handle the stress involved in running a country."

"Exactly how does this affect my ability to be Head of House Peverell?"

"You do not have access to the main vault, nor can you order changes to investments/businesses which would otherwise have been yours to do with as you see fit. You have full access to all Family magics, the properties, and you can (as previous stated) appoint a political proxy to represent you in the Wizengamot."

Sitting back harry lets a irritated sigh escape.

"That is... frustrating."

"I can understand why you feel that way, sir."

"Thank you Grimclaw, your sympathy is noted and appreciated." Harry says, nodding sharply at the helpful goblin. Glancing down at the book again he frowns thoughtfully. "Grimclaw?"

"Yes sir."

"What is the date?"

"Monday August 3rd 1942." The goblin says slowly, a confused head tilt being his only reaction to the odd question.

"Hmm... Arrange a meeting with Headmaster Dippet. It would look suspicious if I didn't complete my education." Harry says firmly.

"When would you like the meeting to take place?"

"At his earliest convenience."

"Very well."

"I believe that is everything... oh. I almost forgot, can you recommend any good healers? It has been a long time since I had anything resembling a check up." Harry asks respectfully. Gently closing the book in his lap while talking.

"I can have you scheduled with some of Gringotts finest tomorrow." Grimclaw suggests.

"Do it." Looking around one final time, Harry slips the books into his pocket before shaking his account managers hand firmly. 

"It was a pleasure doing business with you Grimclaw, may our future endeavors be as successful as this meeting." Harry says, grinning mischievously.

"The pleasure was mine Mr. Peverell. I look forward to it."

Standing slowly, Harry glances around the room one final time; before turning to leave. Only to pause, and chuckle self-deprecatingly. 

"It would seem I forgot to ask for coin." Looking back to the desk he is shocked to find the room completely vacant, a hefty money bag sat in the center of the desk being his only companion.

Blinking in surprise he grins, merriment making his eyes flash. 

Snatching the bag of the table he heads to the door.

 _Things are starting to look interesting,_ he thinks ruefully.

* * *

Madam Malkin's is as much of a colorful disaster in 1942 as it was (will be?) in 1991.

Looking around wistfully Harry feels a small melancholy grin tug at his lips.

 _This is where I first met Draco._ The thought makes him snort in amusement. The other boy certainly hadn't endeared himself during that first encounter, he can remember thinking he seemed similar to Dudley. Impressive given they look nothing alike.

Glancing around he waits for the assistant to realize he's there, the frazzled woman looks like she's been awake for at least the last day and a half.

He can't help but smile when she finally spots him, tiredly exclaiming "one moment sir."

"Take your time." He calls after her retreating form, not wanting to further burden her.

"Follow me!" 

The call makes him blink in surprise, glancing around he realizes the woman must have been referring to him. Huffing in amusement he trudges forward, ducking behind a tall clothing rack to enter the fitting area.

Madam Malkin, younger, fresh faced, and smiling is waiting for him. Her carefree countenance makes him pause, momentarily taken aback by the abrupt reminder of his past stood before him.

The assistant is pining a green robes hem, muttering quietly. 

"You alright deary?"

The question knocks him out his stupor.

"Yes ma'am. You simply reminded me of someone I once knew, a long time ago." Smiling thinly Harry steps forward to stand on a stool as she gestures for him to do.

"Well that's nice. I've been told I have one of those faces." She says happily, either oblivious to his discomfort; or deliberately trying to distract him from it.

"Now then, what are you in need of?"

"Hogwarts robes, plain. As well as several everyday ones, and two formal dressrobes. A few shirts, and trousers wouldn't be amiss either." He says succinctly.

"What house?"

"I haven't been sorted yet."

"What?" The unfamiliar voice makes Harry look at the woman stood besides him. Tall, imposing, and stiff; the woman screams snobbery. It reminds him of Draco, and their first encounter with startling clarity.

Stifling a chuckle he grins charmingly, "I have been home-schooled until very recently. If everything goes according to plan I will be joining Hogwarts for my fifth year."

The explanation seems to be logical enough to appease all the women, although the other customer's nose rises slightly higher in clear dismissal.

"That's admirable deary." Malkin says approvingly.

"Thank you, it was my father's last wish." He says softly, a wistful expression stealing across his face.

"What happened to him?" Again the nosy customer interjects.

"I'm sorry miss, I'm afraid I can't place your face. Who are you?" Harry asks, knowing from past experiences with Draco that not knowing who someone uppity is will surely piss them off.

Just as he suspected the woman looks like he's slapped her. The assistant snorting quietly only adds fuel to the raging fire of hilarity racing through him.

"How... how dare you. I am Sophia Hornby." She says pompously.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" He asks casually, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

He can't contain his grin when the assistant starts to choke on air, coughing violently while she tries to control her wheezing laugh.

The startled, horrified, gasp which the woman lets out makes him frown slightly. _That's a bit exaggerated._

"You... you. Madam, you must call the aurors!" Mrs. Hornby shrieks. Pointing accusing at Harry while she orders this.

Harry exchanges a startled look with the shop owner, both severely confused.

"Why on earth would I do that?" Malkin asks.

"You foolish woman, he's with Grindelwald! Oh, a spy! I never thought I'd live to see the day." The constant screeching, intermingled with insane muttering attract several people into the store.

"What?" Harry exclaims, shock racing through him. "Where the hell did you get that idea from?"

"Oh, don't you try to worm your way out of it. The youth these days, all corrupt. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

Obviously picking up on the fact that no one believes her, she gestures frantically at his hand. "The ring, it bears the dark lords symbol! Don't you see, he's been corrupted!" 

_Oh for fucks..._

"It's my family crest." He deadpans, irritation making his frown deepen.

"Related to the Dark lord! Oh my..."

"No! Merlin give me strength." Harry exclaims, hand coming up to his throbbing head.

"Fiend! Foul degenerate!"

"Will you please shut up." Harry finally snaps, temper flaring when the banshee's screech becomes to much to bear.

"How dare..."

"I dare, Madam. Because this crest has been in my family for generations, and I will not stop using it no matter how much you shriek. Nor will I because a psychopath with delusions of grandeur thinks he can steal it. As the last Peverell I have every right to wear it, and I do so proudly. So please, if you cannot cope with my presence, feel free to leave." He explains coldly, thoroughly done with the woman.

Silence engulfs the room.

Mrs. Hornby is stood gaping at him, no doubt shocked by his refusal to bend to her every whim; while Malkin and her assistant look quietly impressed.

"I think you should leave Sophia." Malkin finally says softly. Making the dumbstruck woman turn her gaze onto the shop keeper.

"What?"

"You've been very tired recently, I have your measurements, I'll complete your order by tomorrow." There's a steel to the usually cheerful woman that makes it obvious that her words aren't a suggestion.

"Well I never... fine. See if I ever come back here if this is how I am treated." With that said the snotty woman storms out of the shop, nose stuck into the clouds.

"Sorry bout that." Harry says, sheepishly smiling at the two women stood in front of him.

"Don't apologize deary, Sophia should have known better than to accuse you in such a way." 

"Thank you." He murmurs quietly, gratitude making his voice crack slightly.

"Now then, why don't you hop down. I have your measurements, you can come back tomorrow to collect everything. How does that sound?" Malkin asks kindly.

"Wonderful." He agrees happily. "See you tomorrow." He says happily, shooting a small smile their way before he heads towards Ollivanders.

Entering the store he is again taken aback by the unchanged nature of it.

"Hello?" He calls out, craning his neck in an attempt to spot the elusive wand maker.

"Hello."

Startled he turns around, meeting the silvery gaze of a much younger Ollivander.

"Who are you?" The question makes him blink, confused.

"Hadrian Peverell, pleasure to make your acquaintance." He says quietly.

The only response he gets is a soft hum.

"Here to find your match."

"Yes, I lost my old wand." Harry says, shrugging helplessly when the wand maker stares at him piercingly.

 _Strange man._ He thinks idly when Ollivander suddenly disappears into the back of his shop.

Returning with several boxes, "try them."

He does... it doesn't go well.

One refuses to do anything, another blows a hole in the roof, only furthering the damage attempt two caused by setting the door on fire. Dropping wand twelve when it violently shocks him, Harry shakes his head sadly. "This is a disaster," he groans.

"Not quite."

Confused by the cryptic words he looks at Ollivander, only to find him again disappearing into the stacks of wands.

"Try this one." The man says, finally reappearing.

Opening the box wearily, Harry does not trust that this one won't suddenly become sentient and set him on fire preemptively.

Spotting the excited look on Ollivanders face, he grimaces.

_No way out of it._

Grasping it loosely, he is surprised when a warm pulse races down his arm. Engulfing his entire body. 

Waving the wand slightly, he is left to gape in shock when a shower of silver sparks spring forth; rapidly turning into a rearing stag.

Prongs. The reminder of his father makes his shocked joy sour.

"Thought it would work." 

Ollivanders mutter draws his attention.

"Why?" He can't help but ask.

"Cedar wood with a wild phoenix feather core, 11" and reasonably supple... the composition of this wand seemed to inexplicably fit you."

Swallowing thickly Harry pays the man 8 Galleons (7 for the wand, 1 for a wrist holster).

As he turns to leave he is stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Young man, I feel I must warn you. There have been those with similar wands to your own who have walked very perilous paths, be careful." 

Looking at the man quietly for several drawn out moments, Harry finally manages a cheeky grin. 

"What would be the fun in that?" He asks rhetorically. Slipping out the door quickly, not wishing to be around the odd wand maker any longer than necessary.

 _Why is it always me?_ He thinks despondently.

Heading towards the Leaky Cauldron his question goes unanswered, as he knew it would.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a LOT of fun writing Harry adapting to his new environment (Hadrian Peverell is gone make waves let me tell you, lol). His tenacity is one of his defining traits, it's always a joy to explore!
> 
> Please feel free to leave a comment!   
> I love knowing what people think!


	3. Dream and detachment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!!!
> 
> I'm so grateful for the response this story is getting!  
> Just thank you! It makes my day to know people are reading it, and genuinely enjoying my work.
> 
> Warnings:  
> Death/torture.  
> Morbid imagery.  
> Injury  
> Depression
> 
> Enjoy!

Dreams twist around Harry like a swirling cloud of damnation when he sleeps. 

Disjointed flashes of despair, which send him reeling in confusion.

The elder wand, held by elegant hand, glowing eerily. Illuminating everything momentarily with the sick shine of the killing curse. Cutting through hundreds, while easily batting away any attempt to fight back. Those who try? Ash to be spread by a disquieted breeze.

A young, dark haired woman... his mother?

Laughing, smiling, dead.

Cast into the role of painted phantom, a fading memento of another life cut short.

A man; hard yet warm, soothing him after he wakes screaming in the night. Concealing the pain in his heart carefully while in Harry's presence, ensuring the young boy he once was never suffered unduly. His father. Body broken weeks ago; left to rot, to decay, under the rubble of a hotel.

Fire swimming in his blood, mixed with jolts of electricity which send him tumbling to the ground twitching uncontrollably. His throat tight and face wet as nothing alleviates the agony.

Laughter, low and calm, echoes above him. While blood slowly spreads across the marble beneath him. Crimson outlining his form, as life ebbs out of him leaking into the atmosphere. Phasing into another part of existence. One where peace is for everyone, not just the few with enough power to secure it.

Eye's fluttering open he finds himself in a field, surrounded by wildflowers and bones.

Vines twisting through eye sockets, while flower buds bloom in crowns where blonde, brown, red locks once grew.

Standing, Harry glances around quickly. Head spinning, and stomach churning as he tries to understand what he's seeing.

The bones are clean, laid out to look like the symbol of the hallows. 

Wincing he walks forward, stumbling when his foot catches on a skull. 

Huffing in irritation, he continues forward carefully. Until finally he's stood over the line of skulls which represent the elder wand. Unlike the others they're cracked, covered in soot, and emanate an aura of decay. 

"Hello again."

The voice makes him spin around, startled.

Before him stands a pretty, unassuming, girl; smiling serenely.

"Hello?" He says questioningly. "Who are you?"

The cheeky grin she sends his way in reply, does nothing to soothe his nerves.

"A friend of a friend... be careful Harry Potter, the life your living is not easy. Take care not to stray too far."

"What do you mean?"

Humming the girl ignores him. Lifting one of the skulls with nimble hands, placing the flowered crown on her own head, before gently rocking the skeletal remain as if it were a baby. 

Then, abruptly, she skips away. 

"Hey!" Moving to follow, Harry finds he can't.

He's frozen.

Cold.

Unable to do anything but watch as the world melts around him, transforming into an infinite inky void.

* * *

Having breakfast after the encounter is... strange.

The world feels different, murky; like he's stepped through a mirror and is suddenly in a parallel dimension. Where the air is thick with unspoken pain, and the whispered cries of the dead taunt and tug at his core. Luring him towards a precipice he doesn't want to avoid.

Dragging in a rattled gulp of air, he glances at the window looking out at muggle London. Silently taking in the desolate streets, and shadowed air. Everything feels oppressive, like the time he fled.

 _I can't escape war._ He thinks, a resigned chuckle creeping passed his lips.

Reaching for his cup of tea, Harry winces. Taking in the purple bruises painted across his knuckles, and the dried blood which cracks occasionally to hint at the crimson leaking from beneath, with a detached interest. It feels reminiscent to the artificial calm of the Imperius, it sets his teeth on edge.

Pushing through the feeling he sips the drink, using the battered hand through sheer stubbornness. Ignoring the uncomfortably warm jolts which occasionally course through it; sparking his bones, and making his fingers twitch uncontrollably.

Biting into a piece of toast he unfolds the Daily Prophet which had been brought up with his food.

Only to choke when he takes in the front page, coughing; trying valiantly to clear his blocked airways, as he stares at the paper with watery eyes.

**Peverell family Peeved**

**Is the dark lord committing line theft?**

**Heir speaks out**

**We, the public, are all aware of the dark lord Grindelwald. Looming on the horizon, his name strikes fear into many a heart.** **Yet, one young man is seemingly unperturbed.** **A young man from a line long thought lost.**

**House Peverell.**

**Old, and respected, this family is perhaps most well known due to the folk-tale written by Beedle the Bard called 'The Tale of the Three Brothers'. Detailing the creation of the powerful 'Deathly Hallows', it is a story many of us grew up with. One which many of us love. However... while we all know the three brothers in the story are rumored to have been the three Peverell brothers: Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus. We often seem to gloss over this fact's real world impact. The Peverell family are closely associated with death, darkness, and unknown power; mixed bizarrely with a steadfast neutrality.**

**Set to fade into obscurity due to their assumed extinction.**

**It seems their legacy is no longer reliant upon a fairy-tale.**

**While doing a bit of shopping, Hadrian (heir apparent to House Peverell) was accosted by another customer in Madam Malkin's. Enraged, the screaming woman made little sense till she pointed at the young man's hand. On which a ring glinted brilliantly, engraved with a symbol many of us associate with Grindelwald. A triangle, with a circle within, bisected by a straight line. What many of us had forgotten was that it had a very different meaning not too long ago. Hadrian put it best:**

_**""This crest has been in my family for generations, and I will not stop using it because a psychopath with delusions of grandeur thinks he can steal it. As the last Peverell I have every right to wear it, and I do so proudly. So please, if you cannot cope with my presence, feel free to leave."** _

**Bold words.**

**I must admit to being taken aback at hearing such a blunt claim. Grindelwald has lured many to his side through promises of protection, and strength. If Hadrian's words prove to be true, then the dark lord may find many of his supporters suddenly less willing to open their coffers to him. After all, how can they know that he won't try to usurp their familial power/legacy? He's apparently done it once already. Almost successfully.**

**With such shocking revelations dealt with I find myself wondering how else Heir Peverell will shake up our world.**

**What will Grindelwald do in response?**

**Why has (the last member of) House Peverell finally re-entered society?**

**Worry not dear reader I swear to work tirelessly till I uncover the** **truth, and answer these questions.**

**Daniel Skeeter, special correspondent to the Daily Profit.**

"Fuck!"

Emotions boiling over, he sets the paper on fire with a twitch of his wand.

Watching the flames eat away the letters, his feelings drain away. Leaving in their wake a hollow void in his chest, one which gapes desperately; searching for relief, for emotion. Failing miserably.

"Why is it always a Skeeter?" Harry growls, head throbbing.

Wincing he looks down at the paper silently, _he's just painted a target on my back;_ he thinks with resignation.

Eyes falling closed, a sigh rests on his tongue; unable to escape from the prison of his gritted teeth.

The pools of darkness behind his eyelids match the swirling chaos of his mind; it makes his throat tighten in discomfort as he struggles to remain in control. Breathing deeply he leans back in his chair, forcefully relaxing the taught muscles in his neck and back. 

Pushing away all thought, he lets his consciousness sink into the void. Embracing the pain, letting it fill him entirely.

It hurts.

More specifically it burns a path through his very soul as he silently fights to feel. To be more than a shell. His body shakes and magic wavers, but he doesn't give in. Rather, he opens the floodgate further. A small smile tugging at him instinctively when passion, anger, fear, and love start to join the cascade. Mixing and clashing violently, as he sits spellbound.

Groaning he slumps back, body slack. Barely keeping from slipping to the floor due to luck and a well placed sticking charm. 

Sparks spring forth from his hands, scattering across the floor as he whimpers. 

Dragging his magic in, fighting to contain the swirling mass of energy; he gasps in shallow breathes.

Eyes darting around the room frantically, his hands clench into fists. Nails digging into his palms, leaving crimson crescents in their wake. Looking down he watches as a drop of blood wells, as it travels down his hand. Until it finally rests on his fingertip, hanging ominously in the balance of falling and clinging for a mere moment. 

It falls.

Splatters on the wooden planks beneath him.

His magic stills, retreating inward, curling around itself protectively. Nestled in his core, tense and wary; like a snake poised to strike. 

Coughing he leans forward, hand coming to swipe his hair from his brow unthinkingly, smearing red on his forehead. Sighing he grumbles quietly, before standing on shaking legs. Heading to the connected bathroom he glances at the mirror; wincing when he spots his reflection. 

He looks beaten, bloodied... weak. 

Ripping his eye from the image with revulsion coating his tongue, he taps the bath with his wand. Watching was it fills slowly.

When it is near full he taps it again, and sinks into the blistering embrace of the water.

Scrubbing his skin raw, Harry winces slightly. He doesn't feel clean, even though he knows he is... 

Hands coming up to clean his hair, he lets his body relax. Forcing it out of the tense state it had been frozen in all morning.

The water is tinted pink, the blood and muck accumulated on him finally off. Sending a pulse of magic into the bath he smiles when it starts to add fresh water, a barrier keeping it separate from the slowly draining pink liquid already in the tub. 

_I love magic,_ he thinks absently; following a soap bubble travelling across the lapping water with his eyes. 

He knows he has to head to Gringotts, he knows he has to deal with Skeeter. But in that moment, Harry Potter refuses to move. Indulging in a bit of selfish joy before the public forces him to become someone new.

 _There will be a crowd today._ He is certain of it. They'll want him to solve their issues, and even if he rejects all pressure... he won't be able to be 'just Harry'. It's the curse of being know, you can never be free.

Closing his eyes, he rests his head on the edge of the tub. 

Caught in a moment of bliss, refusing to continue his critique of what has yet to pass.

He simply exists, and it is glorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show the struggle Harry is going through, he's lost everything, just escaped a war... to put it frankly, the boy's a mess. He held it together last chapter, but the thought that he will be pulled into another conflict is a trigger for him.  
> Book harry also had a serious case of self-loathing, so I'm simply dialing that up a few notches. He feels guilty for abandoning his time, even though he knows they can cope (he has been the hero for way too long. Not being there to fill that function is a HUGE change for him!). However, he also wants to be happy, to simply experience life. It's why he took Death's deal. I'm not going to lie this was difficult to write, but when I was done... boy am I happy with it!  
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!  
> Please feel free to leave a comment. They always make my day!


	4. Peverell and pills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm back.
> 
> It has been too long since I updated this story, so all I can say is I got caught up with work/studying and I forgot. Shitty I know... but life happens, and in this case it got in the way of writing.
> 
> Warnings:  
> Allergic reaction (they can be scary).  
> Referenced torture.
> 
> If you find anything in the chapter you feel should be added to the warnings please tell me!  
> Enjoy!

Tom Riddle’s POV:

Abraxas’s cheery grin is starting to grate away the last thread of Tom’s patience.

Diagon alley is brimming with people, pushing and shuffling to try and catch a glimpse of the ever elusive Peverell heir. In his infinite lack of wisdom, the Malfoy heir had decided that the two of them had to take part in the mass stalking.

Why everyone thinks one person can defeat all the forces of evil is beyond Tom, but he is past the point of asking. He knows from experience the answer will be lacking and vague.

A sharp elbow in his back makes him lose his footing, stumbling forward awkwardly.

It’s only the quick interference of a boy stood close to him, which keeps his face from crashing into the ground.

“Oof.” Breath short, temper shorter, he goes to curse the man who shoved him; when a hand on his arm stops him.

“Don’t.”

Turning to look at the boy stood beside him, Tom is taken aback at the intensity in his tawny eyes.

“Why ever not?” he asks incredulously.

“He is not worth it.” The commanding edge in the other boy’s voice is off-putting. An ill fit match with his mousy brown hair, and forgettable face. It makes Tom’s skin crawl, and sends his walls up high.

Wrenching his arm free, Tom looks at the other boy silently. Waiting for… something. It never comes. His face remains placid and vague, completely invisible in a crowd of loud, brash, Gryffindors.

“Is something wrong?”

The question is innocuous, the kind you ask to fill awkward gaps in conversation with people you don’t find impressive. It makes Tom swell in irritation.

“No. Why do you ask?”

A quiet huff of amusement escapes the other boy.

“You look like you want to eviscerate everyone here, and hang their entrails as decoration.” The bland tone the boy uses doesn’t match the brutality of his words. Tom blinks in shock.

“That…” coughing he looks around them slowly, using the time to formulate a good answer. “My friend was keen on coming here, I prefer other past times.”

Chuckling, the strange boy looks at him with an almost fond expression.

“What, are you not hoping to catch a glimpse of Peverell?”

“He might be impressive, he might not. It seems like a waste of valuable time to fawn over a person who hasn’t proven themselves yet.”

Eyebrow raised, the boy looks at him with an assessing gleam in his eyes. “You don’t find his comments on Grindelwald’s use of his crest brave?”

“Please, the Daily Prophet is not exactly known for its factual output.”

“You believe it to be a fabrication.” He doesn’t frame it as a question, more stating what Tom thinks. It makes curious respect grow in Tom.

“Yes, or at least an inflation of what actually took place. Perhaps Peverell actually did say that. If so, I find it difficult to believe he did so with the intent of the entire Wizarding community finding out.”

“Why?”

“Because anyone who has concealed themselves as thoroughly as he did up till yesterday, has a sense of self-preservation.”

Nodding in agreement, the boy finishes the train of thought.

“Meaning they wouldn’t goad the most dangerous wizard currently alive. Clever.” The proud glance the boy sends his way makes Tom stand a little taller. It feels more genuine than all the praise his teachers have ever heaped upon him.

Suddenly the crowd around them surges, pushing towards the bank. Engulfing the startled looking man who just emerged, only to cry out in disappointment when his lack of Peverell heritage is discovered.

“They are persistent, I have to give them that.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asks.

“I knew they’d be eager for a glimpse, but I didn’t think they’d be this…”

“Persistent?” Tom suggests.

Lip quirked up into a smirk, the boy looks around absently. “You took the word right out of my mouth,” he drawls.

Smiling slightly, Tom also looks around.

“I’d have thought he’d be out by now,” he comments idly.

“Peverell?”

At his hum of confirmation, the boy lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Who said he isn’t?”

Head snapping to look at the grinning boy, Tom gapes at him.

He looks different, taller, more powerful, it is almost as if he has removed a fog which obscured his true self.

“You…”

Nodding sharply, Peverell looks around with a barely hidden sneer of disdain. Before a mischievous smirk curls his lips. Gaze flickering briefly to Tom, he taps his wand to his throat whispering ‘sonorus’.

“HE’S OVER THERE!” a bright neon sign appears, pointing away from the bank.

The crowd goes wild, screeching and shoving. Somehow the two boys are left alone, not a single push or tug landing on them.

Silently Tom watches him tapping his throat again, coughing and whispering to check the counter has taken hold. Pausing for a second, Peverell seems to contemplate something. Having reached a conclusion he grabs Tom’s arm, and guides him through the crush of people. Leading him towards the bank.

Coming to a stop, Peverell looks at him contemplatively.

“You didn’t draw attention to me. Why?”

“It would have been rude.”

“Naturally. Most people would have anyway.”

“I am not most people,” Tom says.

“Believe me, of that I am aware.”

“Are you going to the bank?”

“Careful Riddle, that is a dangerous line you’re walking.” The scolding tone in Peverell’s voice makes Tom wince slightly.

“Apologies.”

“Accepted.”

Face blank, and posture suddenly stiff Peverell looks past Tom’s shoulder. “It would seem I have to leave you now,” he says suddenly. Gaze snapping back to focus on the confused Slytherin.

“Very well…”

“It was nice to make your acquaintance Riddle. I look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts in the coming school year.” Smiling tightly, Peverell looks as though he wants to add something but thinks better of it.

Robes flaring as he turns, Peverell disappears into the bank. Leaving Tom disoriented and silent in his wake.

Abraxas suddenly appearing at his shoulder makes him violently start, provoking a concerned glance from the flushed blond.

“Everything alright Tom?”

Swallowing thickly, he nods slightly. Turning to look at the other boy when he sneezes loudly.

“Are your allergies acting up?”

“What gave it away?”

“Sarcasm does not become you,” Tom says mildly. A red gleam in his eyes being ignored by the miserable boy.

“Fuck off.”

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy’s POV:

Freezing, he looks at Tom cautiously. Memories of screams, and scarlet filling the air between them; making a smirk curl onto Tom’s face.

Eyes watering, and throat tense, Abraxas shuffles away from the other boy.

Gaze stubbornly locked on the cobbled street beneath them. Flinching when Tom’s hand rests on his shoulder, he swallows nervously.

“Let’s get you home.”

Shivering at the neutrality in Tom’s voice, he chances a glance at his face.

He wishes he didn’t.

There’s a carefree grin lightening it.

It makes his look happy, boyish. It’s the same expression he had one night in the common room, sat by the fire. A seventh year writhing on the floor before him, clawing at invisible creatures crawling across his skin.

The boy ended up with permanent scars.

Letting himself be led through the crowds, Abraxas keeps his head down and footsteps light. Gliding through the mass of people with a grace only surpassed by the obsidian haired boy guiding him.

Heaving a sigh of relief when they enter the Leaky Cauldron, his breath hitches when the floo flares. Green flames dancing in front of him, as someone steps into the inferno.

It’s irrational, but he hates watching others floo. It looks like they are happily walking to their death, and he finds the idea appalling.

The irony of his thought is not lost on him as he grabs a handful of powder.

The granules stick to his sweaty palm, making his hand feel strange. There’s a metallic echo behind his teeth, and it takes a moment for him to register that he’s bitten his tongue.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. A flare of… something, building in his chest. It’s stifled when Tom’s hand presses on his upper back, pushing him into the fire.

A grunt of pain leaves him, before he turns to face Tom; his home address rolling clumsily past his lips.

Vibrant green surrounds him, as the world is lost to a swirling mass of magic.

It’s exhilarating, and nauseating all at once.

Stumbling when the floo spits him out onto the rug in his family’s entrance hall, Abraxas shakes his head. Dazed and sick, he blinks tiredly.

His throat feels tighter, like a rope has been coiled around it and tugged on. Heat throbs behind his eyes making them water, and snot is clogging his nose.

He gets so caught up in a downward spiral of awful, that he doesn’t notice Tom emerging from the fireplace behind him.

His attention only snapping to the other wizard when his voice breaks through a haze of pain.

“You look like shit.”

Glancing up, he grimaces. Tom is looking at him like he’s a subject to be studied. It’s disconcerting considering the other boy prides himself on not being overly expressive.

Coughing, he hunches forward. A groan rumbling in his chest when a sharp pain flares in his head.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Palms covering his eyes, as he tires to fight the wave of nausea crashing through his body.

It’s only Tom’s steadying hand on his shoulder which keeps him from keeling over.

Half led, half dragged upstairs; Abraxas shakes his head wearily when he finds himself lying in his bed, a mountain of pillows supporting his back.

Tom is perched beside him, frowning. A bowl of rice resting on his lap, a glass of water held in his hand. Pointedly emphasizing his movements, the other boy places both items on Abraxas’s bedside table (next to a half empty pill bottle, and mug of hot chocolate).

Handing the overwrought blond two pills and the glass, Tom looks at him patiently.

Looking down at the pills resting in his hand, Abraxas sighs. They relieve his symptoms, make the painful process of healing from an attack bearable, but the healers never could pinpoint the exact origin of his reactions. The small red pills represent a false solution, he is very aware that one day his allergies very likely could kill him.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Don’t be a bitch, take your meds brax.”

The uncharacteristically vulgar words, force a choked laugh out of him.

Doing as he’s told, Abraxas tosses his head back and swallows. Washing the disgusting pills down with some big gulps of water.

“Happy?” he croaks. Looking at the other boy questioningly.

“Extremely,” Tom drawls. Startling a wheezy laugh out of the blond.

Silence descends, blanketing the two comfortably. It’s so totally different to what Abraxas was expecting that he feels dizzy. Although he can concede that it might be the pills fault, and not Tom behaving like semi-regular human…

 _Nah, it’s Tom_ , he thinks. _Always best to blame the sociopath._

Speaking of which, the arrogant bastard decides now would be a brilliant time to start talking.

His words make Abraxas shift, uncomfortable.

“I’m letting it slide this time,” he doesn’t have to explain what he’s referencing. “You were sick, and I know how you get when you’re like this. But brax, if you ever talk to me like that again…” he trails off. Before patting the drowsy blond on the shoulder, and standing.

“I’ll let you sleep. We have a lot to discuss when you feel better.”

With that said, he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing Tom's POV came as a surprise, it wasn't in my plan. But now I've done it I'm super happy I did! Same with Abraxas!
> 
> Please feel free to drop a comment! Feedback is super appreciated, since it lets me know what hits/misses.


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